


don't you know that the kids aren't alright

by Magepaw



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Baggage, F/F, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Garreg Mach Monastery (Fire Emblem), Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Insecurity, Shorts, Slice of Life, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vague Spoilers, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 19:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21061853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magepaw/pseuds/Magepaw
Summary: A collection of vignettes focused on various students at Garreg Mach; no specific route spoilers but definitely implied/referenced backstory stuff. May add more later.





	don't you know that the kids aren't alright

**Author's Note:**

> [title is FOB](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WR7U7_cKJw4). i've been playing very slowly through FE3H and one of the reasons it took me 80+ hours to finish my first route was because of how upsettingly real some of these kids' trauma is asdhasdhasd thanks for the suffering!! here's some of my favorite characters who hurt me personally

* * *

"No, no, no, Bernie, you've really done it this time," Bernadetta whispered mournfully to her reflection. She gripped the scissors in her shaking fist and tried not to cry. Stupid, stupid, stupid idea! How did she ever think she could do this by herself?! This was one of the worst impulses she'd ever acted on in her entire pathetic life. Her family would probably have her executed for shaming their house, oh, and she deserved it, too.

The dormitory mirror showed her wide, frightened eyes, her face as small and pale as ever, but now her hair was a choppy mess of uneven ends cropped well above her shoulders. It was… inelegant, to say the least. Coarse. Boyish, even, her father would remark with a disdainful curl of his lip, as though that was the worst insult of all.

Frustrated, she dragged her free hand through her hair, tugging at the roots as though she wanted to yank it all out and start over. She could practically hear the lecture already. Noblewomen of the empire wore their hair long, to be trussed in complicated braids or adorned with ornaments to accentuate gowns flowing over childbearing hips. They were meant to be beautiful and passive, dutiful wives, seen but not heard.

Bernadetta felt absolutely ridiculous. It was bad enough that she never outgrew her flat chest and bony knees and spindly arms and woeful lack of curves, no, she had to go and chop all her pretty hair off, too, her one redeeming feature. She brandished the scissors at her reflection with a determined scowl, as though she could hold back her panicky tears with the threat of blades. None of her classmates would even believe she was nobility, not with this wild mop on her head. Maybe that's what she wanted all along.

A manic laugh bubbled up from Bernadetta's throat, spilling out too high pitched and wild to sound anything but terrified as she waved the scissors in the air. She had done this to herself and there was no going back. It was hers, now. She would just never go home again and everything would be fine.

"Well, it's too late now! Might as well make it even shorter!"

* * *

Felix impatiently tore the wrappings from the blacksmith's package as soon as it was delivered. The newly forged blade was longer than he was accustomed to – a proper two-handed sword rather than his usual hand-and-a-half – and weighed significantly more, as well. Instead of tapering to an elegant point, the custom weapon flared out at the tip, shaped not unlike a battleaxe. It was acceptable craftsmanship. Lighter blades like the rapier better suited his slight frame and nimble footwork, allowing him to dance circles around his larger, slower opponents, to disarm them, trip them, use their size against them. But this was an armorslayer. Speed wasn't the issue.

Felix scowled to himself as he held it at arm's length, testing the balance. His quick, light jabs had been laughable in the face of a knight's plate armor. He'd been forced to use his pommel as a club just to defend himself until the others could reach him. It would have been a mere humiliation had it not also been nearly fatal. And he'd be damned if he had to let the boar prince step in and rescue him ever again.

Felix left the packaging strewn carelessly in the hallway and strode off to the training grounds to test it at once.

It wasn't long before his ponytail was plastered to the back of his sweaty neck. He gritted his teeth and continued the repetitive motions of thrust, swing, parry, his muscles already protesting the added bulk. It had to become an extension of him, so the movements would be reflex on the field of battle. If he stopped to think, that would leave him open and vulnerable.

The longer he kept at his training, the more useless clamoring thoughts cleared from his mind. His frustrations about lessons, classmates, pressure, all of it faded into background noise. This was what he was built for. The sword sang for him as it sliced through the air. He whirled at the wooden dummy, swinging the axe-like blade over his head to cleave it downward. The broad tip bit into the dummy's torso to rend it asunder with barely any resistance at all.

Felix finally stilled, chest heaving as he gasped for air. A satisfactory first session. It was heavy, yes, but he could always take on more weight. After all, nothing would be heavier than the black iron spur tucked in his pocket.

* * *

Claude had shooed her quite unceremoniously from the library, but Lysithea felt no obligation to return to the dormitory after lights out. The dining hall was never fully empty even when the students were in bed. The guards on night watch still needed their meals, after all, and the monastery provided for them. That meant the kitchens always had at least a few staff members on call just in case, rolling dough for the next morning's bread, and preparing whatever they could in between orders. And they always made space for the handful of students who liked cooking, or in Lysithea's case, stress baking when she was stuck on a research problem that wouldn't allow her mind to rest.

The warm glow of the ovens was a familiar comfort, reminding her distantly of her mother's kitchen where she had first learned to make her own sweets. Lysithea measured and combined her cake flour, sugar, eggs, and other ingredients with the same practiced ease as the components of a spell. It was all math, when it came down to it – recipes took precise calculations, and just like reason, would fail if she was careless enough to make a numerical error. Math was logical, with predictable results. And that control brought her calm.

Lysithea yawned, bleary eyes blinking, as she pushed the pan into the brick oven. Her hands mechanically gathered the materials for her finish – the whisk, buttercream, powdered sugar, a handful of noa fruit – but in the drowsy warmth radiated by the oven fire, her concentration began to slip. She could create something from nothing, control and manipulate and exceed the limits of the raw materials before her, but not the limits of her own frail body.

Blood welled from her finger and spattered onto the cutting board. Lysithea glared at the paring knife which she had so clumsily cut herself with, as if she were nothing but a foolish child wielding it for the very first time. She then sighed, pushing the fruit aside so it wouldn't be ruined. She was tired, and she couldn't think straight without sleep, and now she had to stop what she was doing and ask an adult for healing. What a waste of time she didn't have to spare.

* * *

"But you're so pretty! You've really never been kissed before? Not even at parties?" Hilda pressed, and Marianne mutely shook her head no.

Of course such dalliances had been forbidden to someone like her. Without explicit permission, Marianne was not to accept any form of courtship, even here at the monastery. Nor did she particularly care to. The thought of that kind of unwanted attention leading to an engagement she had no say in made her stomach twist with dread. She didn't want to drag anyone else down with her.

Her downcast eyes found solace in the garden, trailing along the shapes of the flowers cultivated there, and finding comfort in their familiarity. She liked taking her afternoon tea here best of all. It was peaceful to be surrounded by growing things. Unlike in the greenhouse, the gardens were allowed to grow at their own pace.

But Hilda was reaching out to pluck her without a second thought. First fingers cupped her cheek, then soft lips pressed chastely against hers. Marianne's poor heart stuttered over a beat. This… was her first kiss. She dared not move, eyes wide as saucers.

It was over in a moment, with just a smudge of lipstick and lingering rose perfume left behind as proof. Marianne touched a finger to her lips wonderingly, gazing back at Hilda's mischievous grin. She had not felt her heart race so in longer than she could remember.

"You… That is…"

"There, now you have! See? It's no big deal!"

Hilda's careless laughter felt like judgment, somehow. Marianne's cheeks grew heated from a confusing mixture of embarrassment and wanting more. Maybe this was something Hilda did all the time, but to someone like Marianne... She had never even considered… Politely she pushed her half-full teacup aside and excused herself from the gazebo. She needed to talk to Dorte about this. He always knew exactly what she needed to hear.

* * *

Sylvain awoke in darkness, and froze.

The grounds were silent at this hour. At some point during the night, a draft must have blown out the candle he left burning. He waited for his racing heartbeat to slow, but it thudded incessantly against his ribs, growing all the louder to drown out the quiet. It was easier to fall asleep with a warm body next to his, a heartbeat more honest than his own, but all too often Ingrid or Dimitri insisted on checking his bedroom during role call and ruining his fun. It was hard to shake off nights like these, too dark, too quiet.

He couldn't tell just how long he lay that way. Forever, apparently. Sylvain was uncomfortably alert, sheets knotted about his waist, cold sweat prickling along his skin, ears straining for any outside noises. It was only a dream, he reassured his pounding heart. He was safe here. He concentrated instead on the rough texture of the tunic he'd thrown on as sleepwear, the ache in his thighs from yesterday's long riding practice, the bruises on his shins from lance training in the courtyard. It had only been a few minutes, or, maybe a few hours? He just needed to fall back asleep before he thought about the nightmare–

Sylvain rose abruptly, face pale in the gloom as he kicked off his sweat-soaked sheets. There was no black water rising to drag him down, icy and inexorable, lapping hungrily at his neck, his mouth, his nostrils. The walls were not slippery stone with no handholds to climb, they were just the plain walls of the dormitory. There was no grime caked under broken, bleeding fingernails, he was in his bedroom, his hands were clean, he was safe. No monsters were hiding under this bed. And yet.

He fumbled for the flint and tinder in his dresser drawer until he could light the candle again, then exhaled a shaky sigh of relief at the warm glow. That was better. Once he could see the shape of the room he was in, it was fine again.

None of Sylvain's friends knew he hated the dark, and he was keeping it that way. If they asked him tomorrow after class about the sleepless bruises under his eyes, he would smile and feed them the lies they expected, about exactly what kept him up late and how many fingers went where until they regretted asking at all. They had their own baggage to deal with. They didn't need to see the ugliest parts of his.

And Sylvain was fine like this anyway. He killed his monster, didn't he? He was used to taking care of himself.

* * *

"Ah, I'm setting a bad example, aren't I?" Manuela sighed from where she was draped limply across Dorothea's shoulders, cheeks flushed from one too many glasses of wine. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this…"

"It's not the first time," Dorothea reminded her with a gentle smile as they slowly walked toward the infirmary. She didn't mind, not really. Not after everything Manuela had done for her – saving her from starvation in the streets of Enbarr, bringing her into the opera company, giving her a chance at a future here at Garreg Mach, when for the longest time she had nothing at all to offer in return. If she could offer her inspiration some help getting home safely after her date ended early, this was the absolute least she could do.

_And it won't be the last time_, Dorothea added silently, and she could tell Manuela was thinking it, too.

"But you're still so _young_," Manuela lamented, petting a hand through Dorothea's wavy hair. She paused to kick her heels off, stooping low to pick up her shoes and lean her unsteady weight back against Dorothea. "And pretty, and living alone… Promise me you won't start drinking, my dear, that's one path you shouldn't follow me on."

Dorothea snorted despite her best effort to keep a straight face. "Professor Manuela, you might be able to outdrink a fish, but I could probably handle my liquor better than you. Try me sometime."

Manuela shrieked in laughter and gave her a shove, and they both nearly toppled to the floor. "As faculty, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," she wheezed, clutching at Dorothea's uniform to keep herself upright. "As your friend… that's youth for you! You just enjoy it while it lasts, because when you hit my age, the hangovers start and they don't stop, even when you have a seminar to teach… Just, just be careful, alright? I don't want to see you of all people taken advantage of… The wolves will eat you alive if you let them, my dear, take care of yourself…"

Dorothea just hummed softly as she eased Manuela into sitting on the infirmary cot, then fetched her a glass of water.

"I always take care of myself," Dorothea promised softly, fussing with the pillows once she was sure Manuela finished drinking. "Who else will?"

Manuela made a sympathetic noise, then pulled Dorothea into a sloppy hug. It felt like being a teenager in Mittelfrank again, dazzled by lights and crowds and the amazing diva Manuela Casagranda, if only for a moment.

"Let's just keep looking out for each other then, like we used to," Manuela smiled. Her voice dropped into a stage whisper, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "And if any men try to bother you, just come to me. I wear a knife for exactly that purpose."

Dorothea embraced her warmly and grinned, showing a few too many teeth. "Oh, I've broken a few arms in my day, too. I think between the two of us, we'll make it."


End file.
